unHurry: Rehumanize by accepting limitations

Author Sara Zarr cites an interesting New York Times article talking about the limitations of our ability to make an infinite number of decisions during a given period of time, otherwise known as decision fatigue.

If you feel, somehow, that you’re a slacker if you’re not writing six to eight hours a day, and that if you only had more willpower, you could just do it, science says you’re wrong.

As she points out in her post, writing is a creative act that is filled with countless decisions. Other crafts are not quite the same in this regard as they are made up of time consuming handiwork where decisions on the way to a finished product are not continuously required, but the same principle applies.

What Sara’s post and attendant article reminded me of again is the way in which our culture as a whole — in both work and [supposed] leisure — with its pace, its impatience, its demand for immediate answers (decisions) dehumanizes us. I read again this week a quote from Kathleen Norris, talking about her move from New York City to the rural prairie, where she says “I have learned to trust the processes that take time, to value change that is not sudden or ill-considered but grows out of the ground of experience.”

Much of American culture has no use for human limitations, the limits of time. We want things now-now-now. We expect the economy to grow-grow-grow infinitely, at an exponential pace. It dehumanizes in many ways.

How do we change the culture so that we can be ourselves again?

Thriving arts and crafts in [very] rural places

Yesterday my wife and I drove two hours north to the very small town of Clearwater, Nebraska. One of the seven or so yarn stores in the state happens to be in this community of 300+. We had a great discussion with MareLee, the proprietor of the business, about creativity, community and the unHurried prairie life.

Prairie Threads (website down at the time of this writing) opened about two years ago. When she told the town council she planned to open a fiber arts store they thought she was crazy but supported her anyway. Clearwater, like so many other tiny towns, is on the verge of dying.

Hannah & Maisie & threads

Her good friends back in Washington State, where she had recently moved from, thought she was nuts as well, certifiable. Why would someone move from a lush, populated, coastal state to the landlocked Great Plains, to the edge of a grass covered desert, to a sleepy little town?

All of those Washington friends have since visited her in the Nebraska Sandhills, and none of them are questioning her sanity any longer. Upon visiting, her friends realized how productive she was artistically after getting away from the frenetic city-dweller mentality. They realized you can sit and have a real conversation without the pressure of somewhere to go, someone to see, something to do. They saw how she is now a real part of the community she lives in — crazy or not — in a way she never experienced living in the big city.

We talked about Kathleen Norris’ book Dakota and how living on the prairie encourages a slower pace of life, a contemplative life that encourages creativity. We all agreed that, as artists, we become crabby if we don’t have the time to work out an idea that is simmering in our head, and that focused time — something that can look an awful lot like doing nothing to a casual observer — is a necessity in creative work.

I drew a lot of parallels to the Scissortail art center idea during the conversation. MareLee pointed out that the yarn store venture was a lot of work and required years of persistence preceding success. Teaching is a key aspect of her business (she has 40 years of experience to draw from across all fiber arts: knitting, spinning, dyeing, weaving, etc). She was able to purchase a home and place of business for a song (her son, living and working in Washington D.C., pointed out that what she paid was barely a down payment on a place in the city).

If you’re ever in north-central Nebraska, make it a point to stop into this prairie gem. While you’re up there, have a meal at Green Gables in Orchard, Nebraska, a barn converted into a restaurant.

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unHurry: Time to process

Do you have popcorn brain? If so, perhaps you need to take control of your online activities.

A CNN article looks at how we’re constantly drawn to the interwebs but need time to process. The constant stimulation of the internet, the ease with which we reach for our laptop or iPad or Blackberry, actually reduces the amount of gray matter (the thinking part) in our brains according to one study. Yet we’re drawn to the constant stimulation, the instant gratification of the Twitter Stream, Facebook News Feed, our email and instant messaging.

The CNN article offers some obvious responses to this addiction — yes, it does call it an addiction. It also suggests staring out the window, which I imagine is a bit less obvious to most Americans.

I’ve always enjoyed staring out the window. I loved having a 9th floor dorm room in college the looked over the entire campus. I would watch the sun set, people stream into the stadium for a football game or simply stare out into the dark before going to bed. I do the same thing, though to an unfortunately lesser degree, out of my home. Recently my wife, who has been increasingly cultivating her creativity over the past few years, admitted she didn’t used to understand why I did this, but from a creative point of view it’s making more and more sense to her.

It’s tough for us Americans to let our minds rest, or let ourselves think freely, uninterrupted. Even without the allure of the internet we’re a go-go culture that has a hard time being still — physically or mentally — for any length of time. I’ve never forgotten eating lunch with a PHD student in philosophy as a college student. We were talking about art and theology, and multiple times during the conversation he said simply “I have to think about that some more.” The phrase and idea with it stood out to me. That just wasn’t something I’d heard an American say before (Generally we have our opinions and don’t hesitate to blurt them out, no matter how well-formed or informed they may be.).

We need time to process. “The greatest thinkers in history certainly knew the value of shifting the mind into low gear.” unHurry yourself.

Are small towns worth saving?

Abbot, Albaville, Burkett, Berwick, Cameron, Easton, Home, Junctionville, Loyola, Marengo and 10 more. These were the towns in Hall County, Nebraska, that didn’t make it. Each one had its own post office. Some were personal ventures, other cooperative and still other were business related. Many were around for a very brief period of time, hoping the railroad would come through. When it didn’t, they died off. Some were around for 50 years.

In the scheme of the developing western United States, the challenges small towns face now look a little different. The rails have already been laid for the most part, trucks allow people to live in remote places without growing all of their own food. The internet allows people in rural America the option of living with the same luxuries, if they have the money, as the people in large cities.

Small town America as a charity case
Last week, Damaris at the Internet Monk suggested the church in America make small towns a new mission field. She lives in a small town that just lost its grocery store. The owner retired and there was no around to replace him. “Where are the wealthy churches willing to back a small business operator in a rural area as their mission project? . . . running a doctor’s office or grocery store in rural America isn’t typically considered missions by many Christians. But if caring for people’s daily needs is a means of mission work in Burkina Faso, why not here?” That in itself is an interesting question, but it’s not the question that really prompted this article.

In the comments following Damaris’ appeal, a few people began to question the validity of saving small towns in the first place, let alone with church monies. Some people were suggesting we should, perhaps, just let them die — maybe even help them close up shop.

Should a small town try and be revived, or should it die?

Life in a small town — and by small here I’m thinking 2,500 people at the very most — wasn’t something I ever really wanted in life. My idealized space was always the countryside outside of a large city or the actual core of the city. Living in Siloam Springs, Arkansas for more than six years (not exactly small by rural standards at 14,000 people, but half the size of anywhere else I’d lived at that point) probably opened the idea up to my subconscious. Giving serious consideration to Hazelton, Kansas was the first active step in my considering life in a small town, very small. The past month I’ve been pondering a property for the arts center in the even smaller Kansas community of Ada, which appears to be made up of all of 8 named streets.

Who makes the call?
If we say that we think small towns should die, who makes the call? How small is too small? Do some small towns have cultural value that gives them precedence over their peers that might not have a museum or small college?

The debate over the value of rural America is actually already underway. A few weeks ago I heard a news bit about whether or not road maintenance in some of the more the rural parts of Nebraska should continue to be funded, or simply be forgotten at the state level. Fuel taxes are among the highest in the country in Nebraska and they still don’t cover the cost of highway maintenance.

Even if current sentiments and economics seem to suggest certain small towns are not worth keeping around, these may not be the best way to place value on rural communities. Some things about rural life can and have been argued for even as the world becomes more and more urban, and these ideals are worth fighting for.

When I was in college I took a community planning course — unfortunately I only had time for one. One of our projects was to anticipate the growth of our own city, Lincoln, Nebraska. The projects were then evaluated by a professional planner, and after the critique our professor pointed out that we all assumed the city would get larger. Why do we always assume our communities will grow?

What happens if we decide we need to shut down small towns now and then in 100 years see a need for them again?

The new small town
Is there an in between, does it have to be all or nothing? Is there a new look for small towns, can they persist, indeed flourish in a new way that hasn’t necessarily defined yet?

When thinking about Hazelton and Ada, I’ve realized quickly that the internet presents business opportunities that were formerly not an option in rural communities. Hobby farms or organic farming might work as Americans (thankfully) continue to become more and more aware of where their food comes from. Rural places will have to find ways to leverage their less-considered natural resources in order to attract outsiders. A good example of this is the Star Party in the Nebraska Sandhills.

Some sacrifices will inevitably have to be made, but I believe creative individuals — people who think outside the American lifestyle box — will be able to make it work. How would you make life in a small town work?

unHurry yourself

Research has shown that people think more creatively when they are calm, unhurried and free from stress, and that time pressure leads to tunnel vision . . .

The greatest thinkers in history certainly knew the value of shifting the mind into low gear. Charles Darwin described himself as a ‘slow thinker.’ Albert Einstein was famous for spending ages staring into space in his office at Princeton University. In the stories of Arthur Conan Doyle, Sherlock Holmes weighs up the evidence from crime scenes by entering a quasi-meditative state, ‘with a dreamy vacant expression in his eyes.

From Carl Honoré, In Praise of Slowness: Challenging the Cult of Speed (page 121)

Via Notes from my unhurried journey

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“To create, meditate and really share life”

“I think I want to be an artist monk — with a wife,” I announced to the WordLily at lunch today.

“Nice save,” she replied.

“I don’t necessarily mean I want to move to a monastery.”

“So you mean you want to create, meditate and really share life.”

“Yeah, exactly,” I said. Her elaboration was spot on.

Recently I’ve begun to explore distributism (thanks to Timothy Jones harping on it over at Old World Swine), which as an economic theory is referred to as a “third way,” neither capitalism or socialism. G.K. Chesterton was a fan of the idea — among others such as Dorothy Day and Hilaire Belloc — which was in some ways a Catholic response to the industrial revolution (according to Wikipedia). A few quotes from Wikipedia:

Distributism seeks to subordinate economic activity to human life as a whole, to our spiritual life, our intellectual life, our family life.”

Under such a system, most people would be able to earn a living without having to rely on the use of the property of others to do so.

Pope Pius XI . . . provided the classical statement of the principle: “Just as it is gravely wrong to take from individuals what they can accomplish by their own initiative and industry and give it to the community, so also it is an injustice and at the same time a grave evil and disturbance of right order to assign to a greater and higher association what lesser and subordinate organizations can do.”

I don’t know why the Pope considered taking from individuals what they can accomplish on their own a “great evil,” but I can understand why he would call it a “disturbance of right order.” I love the idea of subordinating economic activity to the rest of human life as a whole. The way we harp on economics in our culture just doesn’t resonate with me. It seems out of place. Shouldn’t economics be an incidental byproduct of our human activity, instead of something we plan for and around?

Distributism is also interested in promoting crafts and culture.

Distributism promotes a society of artisans and culture. This is influenced by an emphasis on small business, promotion of local culture, and favoring of small production over capitalistic mass production. A society of artisans promotes the distributist ideal of the unification of capital, ownership, and production rather than what distributism sees as an alienation of man from work. This does not, however, suggest that Distributism favors a technological regression to a pre-industrial revolution lifestyle, but a more local ownership of factories and other industrial centers. Products such as food and clothing would be preferably returned to local producers and artisans instead of being mass produced overseas.

Returning production to the local level reminds me of the Tenth Amendment to the Constitution: “The powers not delegated to the United States by the Constitution, nor prohibited by it to the States, are reserved to the States respectively, or to the people.”

Part of me wonders if distributism would fly in our interconnected internet age. If the producer of a particular item in Indiana was doing a superior job to those in California, wouldn’t people just order from the person in the Midwest who had set up an online store?

Regardless, I need to give a little more consideration to idea. From what I’ve read so far, I like it; it sounds as though it might create a lifestyle a little bit more conducive to creating, meditating and really sharing life.

Intentional Observation: Love where you’re at

This morning I read an article in the New York Times. In it, Gavin Pretor-Pinney is quoted as saying

Happiness does not come from wanting to be somewhere else. Happiness comes from finding beauty and a stimulation or interest in the everyday surroundings in which you find yourself.

Pretor-Pinney is the author of The Cloud Collector’s Handbook. He’s also the creator of The Cloud Appreciation Society. Thanks to Julie at Design-Realized for the tip about the Times article.

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Another affirmation of the Great Plains

Cody Jean Carson Brown's Migration

One of the things that makes central Nebraska really unique is the Spring migration of the Sandhill Cranes. All sorts of events go on during the month of March in response to the roughly 500,000 cranes descending on the Platte River Valley. Earlier this week my wife and I enjoyed the opening reception of Stuhr Museum’s annual Wings Over the Platte exhibit.

It’s quite a good show, worth seeing if you’re in the area. I was glad to see acquaintance Doug Johnson getting Best of Show. His recent work is going in a creative and wonderfully unexpected direction, which is sometimes lacking in Midwestern art shows. Another fascinating piece was the mixed media (but mostly ceramic) wall sculpture by Cody Jean Carson Brown pictured to the right.

However, the most interesting thing at the exhibit was not visual. It was the bio/artist statement from featured artist Jason Jilg.

Born and raised in Broken Bow, [Nebraska], Jason could not leave the Great Plains fast enough. The world pulled with all its exotic lands and cultures, so Jason joined the Navy and traveled the world to see these locations . . .

. . . If I were given the choice of traveling Europe or some location in the American Plains, I’d probably pick the Plains . . . This part of America that is “in between.” In between the American West, American South and the very different American Midwest in terms of not only geography, but also time, place and memory.

This is interesting to me, if you haven’t figured it out yet, as yet another validation of the plains, the prairie: Lampooned by so much of America, loved by so many that have taken the time to observe it.

Jason’s photography is some of the better photography I’ve seen in recent memory. The exhibit wasn’t perfect; it lacked a focal point as a whole and some of the prints were pushed a little too far — a la Ansel Adams. But it’s obvious Jilg possesses the necessary skills to excel at the craft. He’s careful about choosing and composing his subject matter and uses the frame very well. His sense of scale shooting on the prairie as a subject is also very acute. I’m looking forward to seeing more of his images in the near future.

Saturday Observes: Danish specs and the Lone Ranger

Suggest you read this post: By blogging buddy Tim Jones over at Old World Swine, where he begins to take his own advice for a change.

Get some new glasses: Both me and my wife are on our backup pairs, so-to-speak. We had a place we liked to go down in Arkansas, where we were treated very well. Finding new places for such service after moving is always a pain. Regardless, I have my eye on ProDesign Denmark’s model 9902.

Jimmy Horn ledgerboard titled Lone Ranger

Read this book: Featured recently on NPR, A Time to Keep Silence (New York Review Books Classics) by Patrick Leigh Fermor is a book I need to read soon, and it’s short enough that I could actually finish it in a reasonable amount of time

Listen to this music: Sufjan Steven’s recent album All Delighted People has been getting stuck in my head, in a good way. I also want to acquire Over the Rhine’s new album and some of Helen Sung’s jazz.

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More on progress

Ah, progress. Ain’t all it’s cracked up to be. Via This American Life (Episode “Pandora’s Box,” April 26, 2007):

This is what we do, humans. We tinker and change and endlessly imagine a more perfect future. And, at the same time, we idealize the past. So, we’re trapped. Progress’ constant companion is nostalgia for the way things used to be.

The thing we forget about progress: there is no master plan. It lurches forward, in the dark, accidentally, and you’re never sure where it’s taking you. There’s no going back, whether it wants to or not.

With a very appropriate response from Quinton Ma:

Eloquently put, however I’ve never been one to idealize the past. I only see the future as possibly perfect.

I agree with both sentiments. Progress lurches forward without considering where it’s going. At the same time, idealizing the past is useless, and optimism about the future is necessary.

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